


No, Don't Say That You're Sorry (and I won't say I told you so)

by TheReluctantShipper



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, M/M, Open Relationships, Petty Jaskier, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Understanding one another, honestly this is pure self indulgence, my emotionally stunted murderous cinnamon bun, who doesn't know how to be soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24955900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReluctantShipper/pseuds/TheReluctantShipper
Summary: The thing is that he’s not reallyhurtafter Geralt spews that vile poison all over him on a cursed mountaintop.Well, okay, no. He’s very much hurt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, mentions of Geralt/Yennefer
Comments: 11
Kudos: 172





	No, Don't Say That You're Sorry (and I won't say I told you so)

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is (obviously) a work of fanfiction. I don't own anything but the original characters. I don't claim ownership over the characters or storyline of the TV show The Witcher, no matter how grateful I am for them, which is hella.
> 
> \- Thanks to the Sister Husbands, who are my best friends in the whole world, and happen to be gracious enough to also beta most of my works for me. I don't know what I'd do without you girls, but I certainly wouldn't be doing this.
> 
> -You can come see me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thereluctantshipper) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/TheReluctantSh1?s=09) if me sharing fan edits and bitching about writer's block floats your boat.
> 
> \- I come by any mistakes here honestly, but feel free to point them out so I can correct them.
> 
> \- I got the title from a Keith Urban song, don't judge me.
> 
> \- I don't know where this started, where it went, or where it came from, but here it is.
> 
> \- Feedback is life.

The thing is that he’s not really _hurt_ after Geralt spews that vile poison all over him on a cursed mountaintop.

Well, okay, no. He’s very much hurt. To hear that, even outside of whatever else they are to one another, his long-time friend and travelling companion thinks _that_ of him-

Ah, but _that’s the thing, isn’t it?_ He doesn’t believe for a _moment_ that that’s what Geralt really thinks of him. _Shovelling shit indeed._ Preposterous. First of all, Jaskier is a stone-cold delight. More to the point, however, is that Geralt is not an overly tolerant man. If he really despised Jaskier as he’d gone so far to make it seem, Jaskier never would have made it past that one lovely adventure in Posada.

No, the truth of it lies in Geralt’s actions- _(in a handsome face pressed into Jaskier’s hair at night when he lies entwined with his witcher, in the fingertip bruises he finds on his hips the morning after a reunion when they’ve been parted for too long, in the way Geralt will tilt his head into Jaskier’s touch as he washes long white hair)_ \- he could have easily chased Jaskier off if he truly wanted him gone.

In his own gruff, never-spoken way, Geralt loves Jaskier. He knows it.

The big idiot just _also_ loves that vapid, venomous _witch._

Jaskier has been good, hasn’t he? After all, he cannot claim that he’s entirely chaste when he and Geralt go separate ways. His standing apartment at Oxenfurt sees its fair share of ladies and gentlemen during his time there, and he’s hardpressed to say no to a smiling, willing face pretty much _ever._

So he doesn’t bitch about Yennefer overmuch, no matter how desperately he wants to. He’s unable to completely still his tongue, of course, but he’s not made of _stone._ He’s never really tried to stop Geralt from going to her or demanded that Geralt choose between them (and that’s not because he has no idea which way that would go, _no sir)._ He’s been a perfect _angel_ about the whole thing, really.

And here he stands, heart smarting, standing halfway down a stupid mountain he never even wanted to climb.

He gets it, he does. Geralt loves the witch, and after the emotional wild ride the whole trip had been, having Yennefer throw that love back in his face must agave been a heavy blow.

(The witch ruins everything, Jaskier is just _saying)._

And who should come stumbling up the mountain (after being so rudely _left up there)_ but Jaskier? Someone else who Geralt loves, someone else who might leave.

And why not nip that possibility in the bud? What’s one more hurt, really, on top of all of the other hurts Geralt had been dealt that day? May as well get rid of Jaskier before Jaskier gets rid of Geralt.

Jaskier understands, he _does._ It’s not that Geralt has no feelings, it’s that the great idiot doesn’t know what to do with them. It’s not his fault, really. Witchers aren’t meant to have feelings, and it’s hard to learn how to deal with something when you’re not supposed to have it in the first place.

Once he’s rid himself of the first flush of stinging hurt (after wallowing for a bit, he’s a bard, after all), Jaskier’s left with anger. Well, mostly anger, and no small amount of sadness.

So when he gets to the bottom of the mountain, he says an emotional farewell to Roach, gathers his things, and goes home to Oxenfurt.

Alone.

* * *

Oxenfurt is lovely, of course, and always happy to have him. His room is as it always is, comfortable and warm and familiar. It’s with relief that he finally lays his things down and calls for a bath.

_I’m home._

As he’s always done when the world proves itself again to be a heartless bitch, Jaskier licks his wounds here. His clothes finally get a decent wash and a sorely needed trip to a good tailor. He’s able to replenish and revel in his bath soaps and oils. He takes his beloved lute to someone who can delicately repair what few scratches and nicks she’s picked up along the way.

He catches up with old friends and favorite professors. He’s stopped a few times by gushing fans, which he doesn’t even _pretend_ not to be flattered by. He does a few guest lectures, then a few more.

He writes and writes and writes and _writes._ Love songs, of course, but not just sad ones. Happy, silly little ditties and epics with lovely, soft endings. He catches up on the White Wolf songs he hadn’t had time to finish on the road. He writes a ballad that has nothing to do with witchers but is still quite good.

He puts the finishing touches on “Her Sweet Kiss.”

(Still a _bit_ bitter about that, then.)

The point is, he has better things to do than mope after Geralt of fucking Rivia.

* * *

But does he, though?

Like it or not, Geralt has been a huge part of his life. His whole life? No, of course not, but a big part of it. He’s spent twenty fucking years, the bulk and best of his youth, following Geralt back and forth across the Continent.

And no, it wasn’t _all_ because of Geralt. It was for his craft, too, Jaskier’s not blinded enough by hurt to acknowledge that. He was following inspiration. And the promise of fame and fortune as much as he was ever following a nice ass in a pair of leather breeches.

(It really is quite an ass, though.)

After all, as talented as Jaskier is, and he _is,_ it’s nothing without inspiration. He learned more about real songwriting in the first week of travelling with Geralt than he would have in a year of being established as a court bard. The part of him that sets him just above his peers, the spark in his heart that burns him for more music, more songs, more _everything,_ that part of him just lit up at the sight of the witcher sitting there. So he followed that as much as he followed a devastatingly attractive man.

At first.

He has to admit, though, even just to himself, that he may have followed for his career, but he stayed for his friend.

He stayed for nights by a campfire, silent but for the thoughtless strumming of his lute. He stayed for four nights of plain cooked rabbit before either of them realized that they had had spices in their bags all along. He stayed for Roach slowly warming up to him, then having to start all over when that Roach passed and another equally bitey horse took her place. He stayed for long days of pointless, nearly one-sided conversation as they walked. He stayed for when Geralt would manage to get a little tipsy, and therefore handsy and affectionate. He stayed for the long nights of fucking that, only on a handful of occasions, sometimes shifted into slow, sweet lovemaking. He stayed for the shared food, ale, stories laughs, touches, kisses, and bedrooms.

He left for himself and stayed for Geralt.

And it _burns_ to know that Geralt damn well knows that and still said those hateful words. The big bastard knows exactly how in love with him Jaskier is and he still saw fit to use cruelty to drive him away.

For someone who doesn’t know how to deal with his own emotions, he certainly ended up being skilled at using Jaskier’s against him.

 _Oh, I am going to make him_ grovel _when he comes back_

* * *

Eventually, as it always does, Oxenfurt goes from comforting to stifling. Jaskier loves it here, truly, but he yearns for open skies and travel.

So he packs several sets of clothes, two lutes, and his bedroll, alerts the school, buys a sweet-tempered gelding named Whisper (delightfully trite, that), and goes off once again.

* * *

His pace isn’t fast and his direction is determined by whim, which is just how he prefers it. He admits that he’s much happier to follow rumors of festivals than rumors of monsters. It makes for much more agreeable company.

As heartbroken as Jaskier is, he’s not _celibate,_ Melitele’s sake. It’s not out of revenge, because he doesn’t want to use someone else like that, but he does take a petty sort of pleasure out of how easy it is to soothe his aching heart with company.

Not that it _soothes_ it, per se, but it distracts him from the anger, the sadness, and the loneliness. And there’s vicious satisfaction in thinking, _You see, Geralt? Someone people don’t want me to be taken off their hands. Quite the opposite, in fact._

So he sings and dances and fucks his way across the continent again, this time by himself, for the most part. He sometimes travels with troupes of singers or performers for a time, but he most often finds himself alone with Whisper.

Whisper is a delightfully easygoing fellow who listens to Jaskier’s chatter with friendly flicks of his ears. He’s big, too, with long legs that easily carry them away from what little trouble they come across.

It’s not a bad way to live, really, if one must live without the person one has spent two decades with.

* * *

Eventually, Jaskier lets his sadness and anger fade to the background. They’re not gone, but they were never really as vibrant as they could have been, either, tempered as they were by understanding.

As much as Jaskier loves Geralt, and it’s as much as he’s capable of, he knows that Yennefer will get him in the long run. Because Jaskier is human and he’ll be _dead_ in the long run, and though the idea of Geralt mourning him forevermore appeals to a petty, dramatic part of him, he doesn’t actually want that at all. It’s good, knowing that someone will be there to teach Geralt how to feel the things he’ll feel when Jaskier dies.

But until then, by the gods, he is Jaskier’s, and it’s high time he lets his witcher find him.

So Jaskier stops playing the traditional, rather common music he’s been sticking to. He packs away his sturdy travel clothes and his excellent quality but not _elven quality_ lute. He stops waiting for another bard or troupe to be playing first.

He dresses in silks, carries Filavandrel’s lute openly, and enthusiastically begins singing once again about his White Wolf.

_It won’t be long now._

* * *

Geralt could have found him anyway, of course, Jaskier has no illusions about that. The man is a witcher, complete with freaky eyesight and sense of smell. Of _course_ he could have found Jaskier.

He just _didn’t._

It wasn’t because Geralt didn’t want to, he knows, and it’s not because he’s off with Yennefer, either. (Jaskier may need a few months to calm down, but the witch will need a _decade.)_ No, it’s Geralt’s attempt at courtesy, at tact. He knows that Jaskier will make it obvious when he wants to be found, just as Jaskier knows that he knows. You simply don’t spend as long as they have together without knowing.

So when, in the middle of a set in a frankly _huge_ tavern, Jaskier spots a cloak with a wide, deep hood covering whit hair and broad shoulders walk in, he knows he’s been found. Something deep within in relaxes for the first time since the mountain.

He never even pauses as he sings. Rather, he belts his heart out and plays almost better than ever. The crowd is lively and loud and the exact right level of drunk, so Jaskier watches with well-concealed glee as the coin fills his open lute case, and he only stops when people have started to trickle out and his throat has started to ache.

He still doesn’t look over at the dark, brooding shadow in the corner. He settles at his table and the barmaid brings him a bowl of stew and a thick piece of bread to go with his wine. He thanks her, tips her generously, and kisses her knuckles. He eats, eyes never wandering far from his bowl. When he’s finished, he takes his time counting the night’s earnings. He may or may not lay it on thicker than it needs to be, but that’s his own business.

Finally, he gathers his things, bids the barmaid a lovely night, and makes his way up the stairs to his room.

He senses Geralt as he’s unlocking the door. The witcher doesn’t speak, but Jaskier didn’t really expect him to make the first move. Melitele knows he hasn’t thus far.

“Go on,” he says softly without turning around. “Tell me what you thought. Three words or less.”

A moment of tense silence, then, “Hmm.”

_Of course._

Jaskier turns around to glare at Geralt. _Gods,_ he really is gorgeous, with his chiseled face and fair hair and warm, guilty, sad eyes.

“I’m still furious with you.”

Geralt just nods, almost eagerly.

“It was a shit thing to say and you’re a shit for saying it.”

Another nod.

Jaskier _hmphs._ “That’s it, then?”

Geralt frowns. “No.”

Jaskier crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. “We’re staying at inns at _least_ half the time.”

Relieved, Geralt nods.

 _“And_ we’re taking my horse with us. We’ve bonded.”

Another nod.

“I want at least _three_ real accounts of your hunts by year’s end. _Real_ ones, Geralt.”

Slower, but still another nod.

Jaskier reaches out and punches Geralt’s shoulder. It’s like hitting rock, but it’s the thought that counts.

“You’re an asshole,” he informs the witcher.

Rather than answer, Geralt takes that for the invitation it is and wastes no time in crowding Jaskier against the door. Big hands cradle his hips, and he reaches up to tangle his own fingers in white hair.

They stand with their foreheads pressed together for a long time, soaking one another in again, before Jaskier speaks.

“You don’t even have a room, do you?”

“Didn’t think I’d need one.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow but retrieves the key from his pocket. _“Someone_ was confident that this would go his way."

Uncharacteristically, that makes Geralt pause. He frowns and his hands tighten where they’re holding Jaskier’s hips, but he doesn’t move otherwise. He also shows no signs of backing up so Jaskier can turn around to get them into the room where they can reunite properly. Namely, where they can reunite naked and sweaty.

“Um, Geralt?” he says hesitantly. “As much as I love being manhandled against doors, and you _know_ I do, I actually love being manhandled in a bed much more than that. So if you could see fit to take two of the _tiniest_ steps back so I can-”

“I can,” Geralt says, staring at a point on the door above Jaskier’s head. 

Jaskier blinks. “You can… Step back. Great! Now that that’s settled, let’s-”

Geralt growls and Jaskier shuts up. After a moment or two of clenching and unclenching his jaw, the witcher speaks again.

“I can. Go get a room.” He frowns harder. “Probably.”

Jaskier’s at him, absolutely floored. “You can _wha-”_

_Melitele’s tits, is this an apology?_

That is… Well, this is…

The mountainside isn’t the first time one of them has said something insensitive and made the other run off. They always come back together, though, and one of them makes demands, and they go on their way until it happens again. So it has been for the last _two decades of travel._

So for Geralt to be doing his emotionally stunted version of an apology…

Jaskier softens and brings his hand around to run a thumb along Geralt’s cheekbone. “Ah, dear witcher. Scared you, did I?”

Geralt’s finally looking at him again. “You’ve never taken this long, and the thing with Yen, I…” Geralt takes a deep breath. “Jaskier, I’m-”

Jaskier surges upward, he absolutely can’t help himself, and swallows the words right out of Geralt’s lovely mouth. They kiss fiercely, already hot and needy for one another.

 _He was going to- and his pride, and- and he was going to put it aside to_ apologize _to me and I-_

It’s Jaskier’s turn to growl. _“Door.”_

Geralt digs the key out of Jaskir’s pocket, with no small amount of groping, and somehow manages to get the door open. Jaskier doesn’t know how, he’s too busy sucking on Geralt’s tongue.

Finally, _finally,_ Geralt picks Jaskier up like he weighs nothing (which still sends a thrill up his spine twenty years later) and walks them into the room. He kicks the door shut behind them, immediately enveloping the two of them in darkness and residual warmth from the fire and being _together._

Just like they should be, really.


End file.
